Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, the clouds that you much dread, are big with mercy and will break in blessings on your head

– William Cowper

Almost 20 years ago, I climbed a sooty hill in Lima, Peru. The sky was overcast and my friends and I wanted to stretch our legs, near the end of a long summer of missions work among the poor. We learned later that we had been hiking through a field of abandoned landmines left by rebels. But we were college students and the climb ahead was all we had in our heads. 

These days, the memory is as foggy as that polluted Lima morning, but I remember the dirt clinging to my boots and calves as we ascended the hill. I also recall that after a while, the blanket-like cloud cover thinned and I began to see a sliver of blue. 

And then, in an instant, we walked right through. 

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I turn over in bed, the fingers of darkness pressing me down, only half rousing from a dark and strange dream …

In my dream, someone had died, someone who was supposed to marry another. It was tragic. And then suddenly, somehow the idea gets turned on me, and I am wandering through a weird gift shop wondering if I am still married, and if I’m not, what am I supposed to do with this precious ring on my hand? 

Dreams. The bizarre telling out of all our fears and pains and hopes and desires. It is a kindness to wake up.

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